


Make a Place in the Empty Space

by cmonkatiekatie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Limbo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:44:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmonkatiekatie/pseuds/cmonkatiekatie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is in limbo and Arthur isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make a Place in the Empty Space

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Inception Reverse Bang based on [this incredible art](http://piecrumbs.livejournal.com/219015.html) by [piecrumbs](http://www.piecrumbs.livejournal.com/). Betaed by the lovely and amazing [earlofcardigans](http://www.earlofcardigans.livejournal.com/), [eternalsojourn](http://www.eternalsojourn.livejournal.com/), and [dizzzylu](http://www.dizzzylu.livejournal.com/).

It's only a dream.

Arthur wakes up and says it out loud. He repeats it until it sinks all the way in. It's only a dream.

The plain, unassuming kind. The clean kind, unaided by drugs and premeditated architecture, created by nothing but his own messy subconscious. It's exactly the kind of dream Arthur's not supposed to have anymore.

It's dark and there's sweat on his back and on his chest and soaking through his shirt. He pulls it off and tosses it toward the wall.

He's in his own bed, at least, but there's still a disjointed second where he can't place himself in the world. He could be anywhere, but he happens to be home.

He rolls to the vacant, cool left side of the bed and pulls the pillows with him. He shifts them around, flipping them and smashing them into something that might be more comfortable, but probably won't be in the long run.

He can feel it still, even now that he's fully awake. He can feel it on his chest and against his neck, up the sides of his arms. Phantom, well known fingerprints. The memory of hands all over him. There and not and there again.

It was only a dream. And Arthur hates that.

\--

They were at a bar once, maybe a year after they were first introduced. Arthur’s almost sure it was in Mexico City, but that’s not the important part. The important part comes later. They were at this bar and Eames was just this guy he worked with off and on. All Arthur cared about was that Eames took care of his shit and bought every fourth round (because fair is fair), and Eames did both.

When it was Arthur’s turn to buy drinks, Al, their architect, wouldn’t let him get to the bar. He kept pulling him back, trying to finish this story about a swan in Belgrade and a kite and why Arthur was expressly forbidden to get Al vodka, no exceptions. This left Arthur standing at the edge of their table, within arm’s reach of the bottle of beer he wanted, but unable to break away out of some long ingrained sense of politeness.

Margueritte had her head turned toward the wall, but Arthur could see her shoulders shaking, and he guessed that meant she would be no help.

Arthur glanced at Eames and Eames looked back and grinned. “I’ve heard this one at least seven times, Al. I’m gonna...” Eames gestured behind him, either the bathroom or a cigarette, Arthur wasn’t sure. Apparently, Eames wasn’t getting him out of this either. As he ducked between Arthur and the next table, Eames put his hand on Arthur’s stomach, and maybe it was sympathy or maybe it was just for balance, but Arthur knows it meant absolutely nothing to either of them at the time.

So why is it, then, that Arthur can’t remember a single thing about the end of Al’s story, but he can still feel Eames hand on his stomach closing in on ten years later?

\--

Arthur goes down with Eames sometimes. He hooks in and spends hours looking for a man asleep right next to him. He can never find him, but he can feel him in the dream he’s stumbling through anyway. The dream is all Eames through and through.

It's occurred to Arthur that Eames could be spending the long years forging. He could be anyone. Maybe Arthur's found him a million times, only he’s never known it. Maybe he's right here, right now. Arthur's not naive or romantic enough to think he'd know Eames anywhere. That's what makes him the best, after all. When Eames forges, everything falls away wholly and completely until he's all filled up with someone else.

But Arthur's romantic enough to believe Eames wants to be found. That's the part he holds on to.

Even if Eames has forgotten his own face and the shape of his hands, the bend of his nose, Arthur doesn't think Eames has forgotten him. Arthur follows him down again and again hoping to be recognized.

So he never half asses it, despite his historic lack of success. He turns over rocks and peeks down alleys and around trees and wanders in and out of shops that don't seem to sell anything. Eames isn't there; not even when Arthur reaches the edge of town and keeps walking, kicking up dust as he goes. Arthur doesn't know what he'd do if he stumbled upon someone who gave him a second glance. He guesses he'd bring him home if he could. Sit for awhile and kiss his face if he couldn't.

\--

There was something in the somnacin, that one time. Something that spread through Arthur slow, like syrup or creeping fog. It went down to his toes and straight up the back of his neck. But it was sweet and it felt like the kind of calm and quiet Arthur had never really known. 

Arthur remembers that the clouds were huge and the sky was bigger than he’d ever seen, darkening at the edges with the first stars coming out, only the sun was high in the sky.

There was sand beneath his feet and it might have been the desert, but it just as easily could have been the sea. There was something in the distance, the ocean maybe, or enormous shale mountains made small by the miles between them. Arthur idly wondered if they were expressly designed to match Eames’ eyes. Hell of a coincidence if not.

Arthur looked up and got lost in the sky until he felt Eames hand on his shoulder.

Eames squeezed and said, “I’ll concede that there are worse ways to earn a living.”

Arthur smiled, both sleepy and wide awake. When he looked up again, a million stars looked back. Eames left his hand right where it was.

\--

If he can never find Eames in Limbo, Arthur more than makes up for it in reality. 

He finds Eames everywhere all the time: at the movies, two rows down and four seats to the left. Sitting in restaurants, shoving twisty forkfuls of noodles into his mouth, tilting his head back and gulping water to wash it down. Once even at the grocery store, waiting in line with laundry soap and three large tubs of Greek yogurt.

For a second, maybe even a full minute, Arthur thinks Eames woke up when he wasn't looking. Maybe he opened his eyes and pulled the tube out of his throat and the needles from his arms, stole some clothes out of a locker, and walked out into the world.

But it only takes a second, or maybe a full minute, for reality to work its way back in..

\--

Arthur didn’t even think about kissing Eames until at least three years into their working relationship.

Mark, the mark’s ex - and isn’t that confusing - wasn’t unattractive. He had very nice teeth and thick curly hair, and he had the easy, casual air that Arthur had always found compelling in an isn’t-that-different sort of way. 

Arthur watched Eames perfect Mark over the course of three weeks in Vancouver. It got so Eames could slip into him using only a hand mirror and a concealed corner.

Arthur watched from across the park as Eames as Mark leaned into Lillian and kissed her cheek, then her lips. Arthur felt a spike of pity for Lillian, kissing someone who clearly wasn’t Eames, but could be in half a second. She had no idea what she was missing.

Arthur tripped over a clump of grass and realized he didn’t know what he was missing either. He hadn’t even realized there was something to miss.

It was a weird thought to have in the middle of a job. He watched Mark walk behind a clump of trees and come out the other side as Eames.

Eames threw a tennis ball to a dog who wasn’t there before and made his way toward Arthur.

Eames furrowed his eyebrows when he got close. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. How much time do we have?”

Eames looked at his watch. “Six minutes, give or take.”

“Okay,” Arthur said, “walk fast.”

They had four minutes by the time they made it to the front gate. 

“What is it?” Eames asked.

“What if we...” Arthur said, and pulled Eames behind a brick pillar. He held onto his tie. “Don’t change back until I say, okay?” Arthur said.

“I don’t-” Eames stopped and looked behind the pillar, toward Lillian and their extractor. “Make it quick,” Eames said, “They’re coming.”

“Fuck,” Arthur said, and kissed Eames.

Arthur kept his eyes open long enough to watch Eames shut his.

Arthur pulled back first and reached into his pocket for the mirror. In a handful of seconds, Eames was gone, and Mark with his straight teeth and curly hair stood in his place.

Later, after they woke up and cleaned up and packed up, Eames said his goodbye with his hand on Arthur’s chin and his thumb over the curve of Arthur’s bottom lip.

\--

Arthur's not like Cobb. He never pulls some incomplete shade of Eames in with him on the job, not while he's hooked up and dreaming anyway. It helps that the most notable thing about anyone else’s dream is the terrible lack of Eames. But even in the void, he can still call up all the places Eames has touched, can still feel all the ways Eames left his mark on him. He can see how very easy it would be to let him creep in for real. At the very least, that version of Eames would be much easier to find.

But Arthur is well acquainted with where madness lives, and he keeps that door shut tight.

The key, he thinks, with keeping that kind of insanity at bay, is to know yourself intimately. Arthur knows exactly who he is: Arthur is good at his job, Arthur is lonely, Arthur is meticulous and strong and against breaches of personal space. Arthur is bad at word games and stubborn enough to play them anyway. Arthur can kill for money or loyalty, but not much else. Arthur is paranoid as fuck.

Arthur is crazy in love with a living, breathing ghost who, for all he knows, won’t ever be found.

Arthur has an invisible collar around his neck and he likes it, but he'd like it better if he was holding the hand that holds the key.

\--

Eames caught him from behind once, as Arthur was doing up his tie. He angled in close and spoke low in his ear. "We could go in, or you could stay here and I could stay here. We could go in later, work extra hard to make up for it."

Under the pretense of smoothing out his tie, Arthur looked down at Eames hands on him. Eames used the opening to gently scrape his teeth over the side of Arthur's neck. 

Arthur exhaled and held his breath when Eames fingers curled in over his crotch.

"Just a little while, love. Just long enough."

Eames' bare skin behind him and his low voice, his lips skimming over his neck as he spoke, Arthur didn't even entertain other options. He leaned back into Eames and took in a shallow breath. If he closed his eyes, he could feel it better, smell Eames more.

It wasn't magic, the way Eames brushed his thumb back and forth, but it may as well have been for Arthur's immediate response.

"Hmmmmm," Eames said, and Arthur could feel Eames rumbley tone all through him. "So quiet. It appears the flesh is more than willing," Eames paused and gave a light squeeze before lifting his hands off Arthur entirely. "Must be the spirit that's weak."

Eames placed his hand on Arthur's hip and tapped his fingers. It was a decidedly less sexual, but still very proprietary gesture.

"Yes," Eames said, "you're absolutely right, aren't you? It would look terrible for the boss to saunter in late, hair all mussed and tie undone. Because, Arthur, your hair would be unforgivably mussed, let's not pretend it wouldn't. Best get a move on then. Have you seen my belt?"

Arthur turned and closed in on him, near enough to press his clothed erection into Eames' naked hip. "Jesus, Eames, don't you ever shut up?"

"Sometimes," Eames said thoughtfully. He plucked at Arthur's tie. "I've found there are few things worth shutting up for. Lucky for you, you happen to be-"

Arthur kissed him. 

"-One of them." Eames finished and grinned, closed mouthed and much too pleased with himself.

Arthur rolled his eyes and pushed him back onto the bed.

\--

Arthur drives out to see Eames just after the new year.

He doesn't go looking for him this time. He doesn't even hook into the PASIV.

Instead, he sits next to him. The idea was to be there. To be the guy who visits. It’s something he’s never done.

It is much, much worse. With nothing to do and no goal to keep him occupied, Arthur has no choice but to think.

Eames is right there. Eames is nowhere in sight.

Arthur closes his eyes and counts to a hundred. He opens them and thinks _That was fucking easy. Now you._

Arthur stares and stares, and after a while, he starts to stew. Just an angry simmer at first, but as the clock ticks forward, Arthur reaches a roiling boil. He's still throughout, and his face, he thinks, is blank. Arthur’s spent so much time thinking about how much he misses Eames, he didn’t stay quiet long enough to realize how much he _hates_ him.

How many lifetimes has Eames tumbled through. How many years has he lived without Arthur, just in the time that's elapsed since he sat down.

Arthur calmly stands up and gets as far as the door before he stops and heads back to Eames' bed.

The decision to put his hands on Eames’ chest and push is a quick, almost unconscious one. It's ugly and selfish and Arthur does it because he's so, so angry at Eames for leaving him here. He wants his hands to burn through Eames' chest and straight down through layer upon layer of dream until Eames can't feel anything but the weight of him day in and day out for a hundred thousand years.

Eames' chest feels skinny and small under his hands and that makes Arthur angrier still. He's so furious his own chest starts to hurt.

Eames doesn't react. Of course he doesn't. But Arthur starts to feel him breathe. It's steady and he's warm and then it’s like Arthur’s used up all his fuel and all that's left of his blind rage is the same dull ache he's always got. Sharper, maybe, but familiar.

Eames eyelids are very thin, and his eyes don't move beneath them. This is their life now, and Arthur is really fucking tired.

Arthur puts a hand on Eames' cheek and lets it stay a little. He says, "See you later," and squeezes Eames’ wrist on his way out.

\--

The last time Eames said goodbye, he had two hands on Arthur's shoulders, sliding them up to his neck in a loose circle. His thumbs brushed over the dip between his collar bones.

"See you in three weeks," he said, and Arthur kissed him.

"It's okay to miss me," Eames said. He tweaked Arthur's nipple, playful, light, a subtle reminder of the bruise that was there and the way Arthur had begged for it not too long ago. 

"It's okay to admit it," Eames added, and Arthur pushed him away.

"Three weeks," Arthur said.

\--

When Eames wakes up, it's not like Arthur thought it would be. It's not a secret. He doesn't slip out a side door and show up in reality one day.

Arthur gets a call, and he drives an hour, and when he gets to Eames’ door, Eames looks up. The moment doesn't stretch on and on, it's actually pretty quick, but Arthur can pinpoint the exact moment when he gets the look of recognition he's been after for forever. The look in his eyes shifts and Arthur only realizes Eames is smiling after he spots the lines at the corners of his eyes.

"Hello," Eames says.

Arthur's throat is dry and his cheeks hurt. For a while, no words come out, but Eames is patient and Arthur figures he's earned it. "Hey," he finally manages.

\--

Arthur brings Eames home. They muddle through being together and being alone and wanting to be alone and wanting to be together.

Arthur makes Eames tea and Eames makes Arthur breakfast. Arthur waits for him when Eames goes slow and can't remember where the forks are and bitches about the eggs on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.

They walk, even though Arthur wants to run. He thinks Eames wants to run too, but Arthur knows that wanting and doing are sometimes hard to reconcile.

Arthur finds Eames asleep on the couch. An hour later, Arthur's staring from the closest arm chair, clammy from all the cold sweat. He doesn't let himself shake Eames awake, no matter how much he wants to. _Needs_ to.

Later, in the dark, Eames puts his hands on Arthur's chest and says, "I felt you here."

Arthur has to ask him twice to repeat himself.

He blinks, and keeps his eyes closed against the wet. "I felt you everywhere," Arthur answers.


End file.
